Zephyr stared at the severed head lying in the sand.
His gaze shifted from the lifeless face to Arlund's sword, still embedded in the ground, then to Zakrox, who calmly slung his bow over his back as if what had just happened was no more than a routine chore. Around them, the mercenaries erupted in laughter and cheers—victory tasted sweet, even when it came through betrayal.
Zephyr's face was twisted in confusion. He looked at Zakrox, who caught his expression and smirked.
"You seem lost, kid… What, you thought we'd stand aside and watch our commander die for some empty notion of honor?
Don't be naive. Glory doesn't feed the starving, and honor won't stop a dagger from slicing your throat.
Drop those delusions."
Zakrox stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Look into my eyes and tell me—what's more important: your life, or your pretty little ideals?"
Zephyr didn't answer. The words hit too deep.
Zakrox turned, his voice now colder:
"In this universe… the strong devour the weak.
Kings rule over slaves.
If you want to stay alive, abandon anything that drags you down.
I'm not asking you to be a monster every day of your life…
But when the time comes—be worse than a monster."
With that, he turned and walked away, heading toward Arlund, leaving Zephyr kneeling in the bloodstained sand.
The corpse of the man he had killed lay just ahead. Blood pooled around it in a dark red halo, soaking into the golden desert.
Wounds covered the man's body—all inflicted by Zephyr himself.
He stared in silence, then shifted his gaze to the man's pale face.
His stomach churned.
He nearly vomited.
But he clenched his jaw and fought it down.
His right hand was stained red. He raised it and stared at it blankly… then turned to the dagger still lodged in the sand beside him.
"Am I… a killer now?
But I was just… defending myself…
I never wanted this…
But this cursed world… it's forcing me.
Forcing me to become something I'm not…"
"Just yesterday, I was going to work like always…
And now… I'm taking lives just to survive…"
Tears threatened to fall, but he held them back. He didn't want anyone to see him like this.
Footsteps approached.
A familiar, gruff voice broke the silence.
"Easy there, boy… You look like you've seen a ghost."
Zephyr glanced up.
Jones stood beside him, hand on his bruised ribs, struggling to stay upright.
The old mercenary sat down next to him with a grunt, groaning in pain.
"We've all been there," Jones muttered. "The first kill…
It never leaves you.
I'm not saying it's right. Hell, no.
Killing for sport? Killing for fun? That's madness.
But when it's you or them?
You choose you. Every. Damn. Time."
Zephyr's expression softened, his breath slowing as he listened.
Jones continued, his tone growing heavier:
"I almost died back there.
That bastard cracked my ribs.
If Arlund hadn't stepped in when he did…"
He paused.
"Rod didn't make it. Took a blade to the throat trying to save me."
Around them, the mercenaries tended to their wounds in silence.
Zakrox approached Arlund, who stood motionless over the corpse of their enemy.
Zakrox pulled out a folded parchment and began reading:
"Savarr the Butcher. Peak Stage Two Ascendant.
First sighted during the battle between the Blackwater Kingdom and the Moon Dominion.
He was recruited by a Blackwater general. Slaughtered hundreds of Moon soldiers.
After their defeat, he fled to the borders of the Twilight Empire…
Where he wiped out an entire village—tortured the men, raped the women, burned the homes, enslaved the children.
Then he started his own mercenary band—monsters like himself."
He folded the paper and returned it to his satchel.
Then, without emotion, he grabbed Savarr's severed head and tossed it to another mercenary.
"Souvenir. Keep it."
The man grunted, too busy bandaging his arm to care.
Arlund suddenly spoke:
"One month until we reach the Empire…
What's your read on the mission?"
Zakrox shrugged:
"No idea. But it's definitely related to the tension between Twilight and the Darknight Empire.
They've been at each other's throats for millennia."
Arlund's expression darkened at the mention of Darknight, but he said nothing.
"Let's see if the reward is worth it," he muttered.
He looked down at Rod's body.
Kneeling beside it, he whispered something no one else heard.
Then he raised his voice:
"Rod joined us two years ago.
An orphan. No combat experience.
Rejected by his kingdom's army, he turned to us—seeking strength, fortune… a future.
He never imagined his end would come in a nameless desert…
Slain by a rabid beast."
The other mercenaries gathered around, silent.
Arlund raised his voice again:
"On our path to riches, we've lost brothers and sisters.
Old Harry. Little Arina…"
He named them, one by one.
Finally, he said:
"Today, we add Rod to the list.
His body will fade… but his spirit—his struggle—lives on."
He unsheathed a knife and cut his palm, letting blood drip onto the sand beside Rod's corpse.
The mercenaries dug a shallow grave with their bare hands, laid Rod to rest, and buried him.
Then they planted his sword in the ground above the mound.
A silent farewell to a fallen comrade.
Zephyr watched in stunned silence.
He hadn't expected these brutal men to carry such loyalty in their hearts.
But the moment passed.
And the mood shifted.
The mercenaries returned to the battlefield—not to honor the dead, but to loot them.
One cursed after finding only copper coins. Another shouted with glee as he uncovered a silver pouch. Greed glimmered in their eyes.
Even Arlund rummaged through Savarr's corpse, retrieved a pouch filled with gold, then lifted his massive axe in triumph.
Jones, still groaning from pain, crawled to the corpse of the man who nearly killed him and began digging through the pockets.
He returned to Zephyr with something in hand—a silver coin.
"Here," he said, tossing it to the boy. "Your first loot."
Zephyr hesitated.
Jones raised an eyebrow.
"There are kids starving out there who'd kill for a copper.
And you're gonna refuse silver?
Take it. You'll need it."
He picked up the dead man's sword and handed it to Zephyr, strapping it to his belt.
"This, too. Your prize.
Out here, a blade isn't just a weapon.
It's your lifeline—and your livelihood."
Zephyr asked quietly:
"Are all your missions like this?"
Jones chuckled:
"Sometimes.
Sometimes worse."
He clapped the boy's shoulder:
"Get used to it, kid.
You're one of us now."
When the looting was done, Zakrox gave a sharp whistle.
The mercenaries gathered.
"We got our five hundred gold coins… but this isn't the end.
We still have a month until we reach the Empire.
We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we move.
They set up camp, lit fires—using the same flames that had given away the enemy's location earlier.
They pulled out strips of dried meat and began to eat, indifferent to the corpses strewn around them.
Zephyr couldn't stomach the idea of eating among the dead.
He took his portion, entered his tattered tent, and lay on the ground, staring up at the stars through a hole in the cloth.
Sleep came.
But not for long.
He awoke in the middle of the night, unable to close his eyes again.
The scent of decay hung heavy in the air.
He left his tent, picking his way carefully through the battlefield, avoiding broken limbs and severed heads.
By the fire, two figures sat—one sharpening a blade, the other carving new arrows.
Arlund and Zakrox.
Zephyr froze.
He was about to turn back when both men suddenly looked up, their gazes locking onto him.
Zakrox called out:
"Come here.